


Sheep's Clothing

by HostisHumaniGeneris



Series: Smutswap 2018 Fills [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Forced Orgasm, Forced to enjoy it, Gang Rape, Held Down, Knifeplay, Loss of Control, Multi, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Restraints, Rough Sex, Triple Penetration, Undercover, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 09:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14329440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HostisHumaniGeneris/pseuds/HostisHumaniGeneris
Summary: She was turning heads at the club and attracting the wrong sort of attention.  That was the point of her being there, after all, to find out exactly why young women disappeared when they got to the club.  Only she anticipated being able to get out of their trap before they fell for hers.  She was wrong.





	Sheep's Clothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morning_coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morning_coffee/gifts).



> Written for Smutswap 2018, in response to a prompt for fic requesting gang rape involving, amongst others, an undercover cop and multiple male doms.

Her name was Erin.  She was a lean, tall redhead with green eyes.  She might be a keeper.  Definitely wasn’t shy, shaking her ass in her fuck-me boots, skirt that barely reached mid-thigh, crop top that exposed much more than it covered, and a black, lacy choker.  Like she was designed to attract the wrong kind of attention.

Stamper took a shine to her almost instantly.  He sat at the bar watching her dance, trying to lure the attention of everything with a pulse.  So far there were no takers; the fact the Club Ishtar’s management took an interest filtered through the patrons, and they new better than to try to compete.  The bouncer had already given Stamper her name and age, and the fact her driver’s license was out of state.

She was a recent grad who just moved into town to chase a job.  He ignored the local trying to strike up a conversation next to him as he scrolled through Erin’s social media hits on his phone, grinning at photos showing a girl with quite the wild streak between banal quotes from celebrities.  She was perfect.

He finished his drink and headed across the floor.  Some long-time patrons made way for him, while the enthusiastic newcomer was facing away from him until he was within five feet.  He watched her writhe under the lights, hair whipping around her head until she turned and noticed him.  She sized him up for a moment and grinned.  He had that effect on women. “Care to dance?”

They grinded for a while, and Stamper was impressed by how _friendly_ she was.  She’d been taking periodic breaks to get drinks, and judging by the tab she racked up, her friendliness might’ve been partially due to chemical assistance.  When one interchangeable electronic song ended, he offered her some more.

At the bar, he felt her out a little.  He pretended to be surprised to learn she was new in town and sympathized when she said she didn’t know a lot of people in town.  She didn’t talk much with her parents; they were apparently very conservative and found her behavior aberrant.  She intimated that if she didn’t find someone to go home with, she’d have to take a cab because she came here alone.  Single, distanced from family, and no friends waiting on her?  She was checking all the right boxes.

Eventually, Stamper asked her how she liked the club.  She babbled out something about reading something about Ishtar.  Goddess, right?  He gave her a warm smile and explained that Ishtar was an old Goddess, Babylonian.  He almost had to pat her on the head when she asked if the owners were worshippers.

“No, nothing like that.  Ishtar stopped being worshipped centuries ago.” He explained.  He weighed whether or not to bring up the fact that the worship of Ishtar involved prostitution at her temples.  On one hand, that fact was where the club got its name, and risqué little facts like that might go over well.  On the other, they might not. If she had lived back then, Erin seemed like she'd be on the fast track to whatever the Babylonian equivalent to sainthood was.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and while she was turned to look at the dance floor, probably thinking on whether or not to get back up there and show up all the locals, he looked at it. 

TEST DRIVE?

He shot a glance at her.  She checked all the boxes. And he'd taken a shine to her, it would be a shame to pass up this opportunity.

YES.

“Is that your girlfriend?” Erin said teasingly, craning her neck as he quickly shoved the phone back in his pocket.  “I think she might’ve lost you.”

“No, nothing like that.  Coworker.” He said. 

This excuse placated her almost immediately.  “Oh… where do you work, anyway?’

“I actually am part owner of the club.” Stamper said.  That was true, although the overpriced booze wasn’t quite where he made most of his money.  “All those drinks you’ve been getting go right to my pocket.  I actually own a few businesses around town.”

“No way.” She said in apparent disbelief.  “You’re too young.”

He paused, nodded, and smiled warmly.  He inherited his share of the business when the Giannelli brothers gunned down his father after his father had their baby brother gunned down.  Settling that turf dispute definitively, and exploring new revenue streams for the business had made him a rising star.  “I very much am.  Would you like to see the V.I.P. rooms?”

He led her, arm-in-arm, past the dance floor, past a trio of female employees of his waiting to exchange favors for cash with the male patrons, past the stairs leading to rooms where clubgoers got exceedingly friendly with one another, to where Ozzie and Copper stood door marked “PRIVATE”.  Their suits were off-the-rack, nowhere near as good as his tailored job, but they weren’t there to look good.  They were giant slabs of meat hired to make sure nobody entered the private area.  Or to make sure only the right people got out.

She was babbling, excited.  This was her first time in a VIP room she said as he led her down a dark hallway.  She was unaware that Ozzie had entered the private hallway and locked the door behind him.   Copper would get his turn later.

She seemed bubbly and excited until they reached the end of the hallway, and Stamper opened the door and motioned her inside.  The fact that the only furniture was a bar, some stools, and a filthy couch, and that a dozen men in various states of undress stood in a semicircle facing her took the wind out of her sails.  She half turned, eyes wide.  Her voice was substantially lower when she asked “What’s this?”

He grabbed her wrist.  “Erin, you told me how you don’t have any friends in this town.  Well, I’m only trying to help you make some.”

She managed to wrench her arm free.  The girl was lean and muscular, and the move was practiced.  She’d had self defense classes, apparently.  She took off through the door and barely got through it when Ozzie grappled her.

She put up a fight.  Stamper liked that; she’d kicked and thrashed out of Ozzie’s grasp, decking him in the face in the process, and broke into a run for the club proper.  Stamper wasn’t particularly worried.  The door was locked, and between the soundproofing and the thumping bass on the dance floor, she’d never be heard. 

He, Ozzie, and a few others walked after her while she clawed and pounded at the door. As they drew nearer, she spun around, squared her shoulders and held her fists up. Stamper pulled out a pocket knife and slowly made a show of unfolding the blade while he knew a few of his compatriots were drawing guns behind him. She froze, and lowered her arms..  Ozzie and Jake took the opportunity to step around him and each grab onto one of her arms.  They dragged her, kicking and screaming, back to the VIP room, where they cuffed her hands behind her back and shoved her to the couch.

They dumped out the contents of her purse.  Lip gloss, wallet, loose change, phone.  Everything identifying would be destroyed, but some of the gang went about divvying up the cash.

Stamper’s head was swimming; maybe it was all the blood rushing down south.  She stared up at him in rage and threw a kick at him.  He stepped to the side and then was on top of her, hand on her throat, knife held up in front of her eye.  “Erin, Erin, Erin.  You’re worth a _lot_ more if we don’t have to carve you up.  And I don’t think you want me to carve you up.  So be a good little girl and behave yourself.”

“Fuck you!” She yelled back.  Her lower jaw was working, she was searching for something to say. 

“Got quite a mouth on her.” Jackson noted.  That she did, although Stamper was going to wait until sure she was broken in until he tried it out, didn’t feel like using a whore’s mouth unless he was absolutely sure she wasn’t going to try bite, and she seemed just the type.

He’d just have to settle for her cunt.

He grabbed the front of her shirt and pulled, then made a show of slowly tracing the dull edge of the knife down her cheek, then past her throat and collarbone, then twisting it around and cutting through the flimsy material she’d been wearing.  Then he sliced through the front of her bra, careful not to nick her cleavage.

He tore the scraps of cloth off her shoulders.  Grasping a breast roughly, he smiled and looked over his shoulder.   The gang leaned, getting as good a look as they could.  He mauled her tits with both hands and announced “Hm… definitely would make a mint on the market.  I’m thinking, private buyer more than a whorehouse.”

She kicked and thrashed and was great entertainment.  He didn’t cut her skirt off, instead tearing it with his bare hands.  She swore, spat, and threatened as he shoved her over on her stomach, stopping only to yelp when he undid his belt and brought it down on her ass.  He leaned in close, grabbing a fistful of hair.  “Y’know, don’t even pretend you didn’t come here for dick, you slut.  The dancing, the flirting, the clothes… you’re in a fucking G-String.  Wonder how many of the boys out on the floor got an eyeful when they ‘dropped’ something and had to pick it up.”

“Shut up.” Oh, he hurt her feelings.  Her face was turning red.  He brought the belt down on her ass a few more times. 

"Erin, behave yourself." She opened her mouth to say something else and he slapped her across the face, hard. “You keep your mouth shut, lie back, and you’ll get all the dick you could ever want, and then some.”

He dragged her back to lying face up and slid the knife under the waistband of her underwear.  Flick, and the right side of it was crumpling as the string was severed.  Flick, and so was the left.  He stuffed the fabric in his pocket along with the folded knife; he liked to keep a souvenir from each girl he brought back for the V.I.P. tour.

Figures the slut shaved herself down there.  They’d have to wait a while to see if the carpet matched the drapes.  She thrashed and struggled as his hand drifted between her legs.  She threw out a threat when he inserted a finger. 

“Shit, she’s tight” He growled as he fingered her.  She was tense and dry.  One of the others handed him a bottle of lube; didn’t want to damage the merchandise too much.  But Stamper set it aside.  “Spread her legs for me, will ya?”

Strong hands held her shoulders to the couch while prying her legs apart like a wishbone.  She squirmed futilely as he knelt in front of her.  He’d be a gentleman, get her wet before getting started; he always loved holding the fact they ended up enjoying themselves over their heads. 

He went slow, gentle, someone apparently had enough of her yelling to clamp a hand over her mouth as he spread her lips open while tonguing her clit.  There was an unmistakable whine as his fingers ran along her inside.  The muscles in her legs tensed against the hands holding her, and she alternated between screaming in impotent rage and moaning as her body responded.   Her face turned red and she managed to shake free of the hand on her mouth and threatened to tear his cock off while he decided she was ready for it.

When he unzipped and pulled out his cock, she tried to wriggle away from him.  He couldn’t suppress a smile when her eyes widened; he was pretty big.  The others shoved her down and he held her fast, laying her on her side, facing the crowd. He knelt on the couch behind her and lined himself up.  He entered her slowly, wanting to savor each moment as he buried himself in to the hilt. Then he pulled out and slammed back in.  She was tight, and the noises she made while he fucked her were wonderful.  He grabbed a fistful of her hair and directed her attention to the gang leering at her as he fucked her. 

He'd gotten her wet by being gentle, but he fucked her roughly.  She was going to end up clocking some serious mileage tonight.  Her body was tense, lean muscle and pale skin.   Her cunt was tight and slamming into her was fantastic.  Her half-articulate insults were funny.  And the shriek she let out when he exploded inside her with a howl was amazing.

They made a night of it.  Ozzie had her ass. It was cute how her eyes bulged when he first began prodding her ass with a lube-coated finger, how she wriggled her backside to escape when he pressed his cock against it. He’d used a lot of lube, but the way she howled when he shoved in, it wasn’t comfortable.  The man wasn’t going to try to make it bearable for someone who bloodied his nose.  He shoved her face in the cushion of the couch and his cock in her ass and fucked her until she cried.  Then he shot his load all over her back when he came.

Jackson did try her mouth, willing to risk his manhood after running the flat side of a knife between her legs and he explaining what he would do if she even thought about using her teeth.  She was apparently not great at giving blowjobs, which was surprising given how slutty she’d been acting earlier. It'd be a skill they'd be sure to teach her, but at the moment, Jackson grabbed her head in both hands and shoved himself down her throat.  She shook and gurgled as he fucked her face, her struggles becoming weaker the longer it went on.  He pulled out to finish between her eyes as she gasped for air.

Cunt, mouth, tits, ass, hair; they used everything.  One at a time turned into two at a time when Jack and Carver decided to use her cunt and mouth at the same time.  Then it was her cunt and ass.  Then all three.  She was uncuffed so she could give a handjob while all her holes were occupied.  She went from the couch to the wall to the bar to the floor and back again; bent and folded and fucked senseless.  She’d been penetrated by cocks and hands and bottles, and was covered in spit, beer, sweat, and cum.  She’d gone limp by the time everyone had a turn, only reacting with moans and coughs as she was used.

He’d noticed a change in her as the night wore on.  Fewer threats, more moaning.  Her attempts to break free had stopped, and it looked like her movements were in time with her new friends. Held up by, and sandwiched between two jacked security guys, she threw her head back against one and it was unmistakable her moaning wasn't from pain.  Hell, when she was sitting on one of their laps, cock buried in her ass, she was practically _bouncing_ on it.  They definitely made her cum herself a few times; she was a screamer.  He had assumed the big stumbling block to selling her or putting her out on the streets was that she’d be stubborn.  If she was getting into it...

He’d gotten hard again watching, waiting for the rest to grow bored of her and call it a night.  They filtered out as they did, until only he and she were alone.   Stamper hadn’t had enough of her.  He wondered if she had enough of him.

She laid limp on the couch when he propped her up and wiped her face and chest off with the remnants of the shirt she’d been wearing.  She kept her eyes off of him as he cuffed her hands behind her back again.  She didn’t offer any resistance when he pried her legs apart and felt between them.  Her cunt was red and raw from the pounding she’d taken earlier.  He slid a finger in, and it came back sticky and white.  Wanting to fuck her again overrode the fact she’d spent the night servicing the entire gang.  She kept her eyes screwed shut through most of it, as he fingered her, mewling weakly.  She’d been screwed hard, and every slight movement he made got her moaning.  He kept at it as she laid there, bare and broken, whining until he stopped.

She blurted out a “Huh?”

“You’ve enjoyed tonight, haven’t you?”

She managed a “fuck you” with no force behind it.  He ran a finger along her clit, causing her to shudder. 

“You’ve never been fucked this good in your life, have you?” No, she had not.  He fingered her some more while waiting for an answer, but when all she did was moan, he tugged on her matted hair and growled in her ear.  “C’mon, tell me.”

She wasn’t talking much, so he continued to finger her, trying to keep her right on the edge.  It took a long while for her to mewl “Please, stop.”

“Why?  I’m having fun.  And so are you.”

She groaned in frustration, as he continued fingering her.  “C’mon, you were _made_ for this.”

“Stop.” He slapped her again, hard enough to make her cry out.

“Erin, consider tonight a lesson in obedience.  You want this…” He emphasized his point by dragging his fingers around her clit and observing her shudder.  “…Just be honest with me, and you’ll enjoy yourself.  Keep being a stubborn bitch and I’ll keep hurting you.”

He let that hang for a moment, before asking “So now… have you ever been fucked like this before?”

“No.” came the quiet reply after a pause.

“Have you cum tonight?” There was a pause, and he pinched her and said, calmly.  “Remember, honesty”.

She nodded, looking at the floor. 

“I can’t hear you.” He chided, cupping her chin in his hand and forcing her to look in his direction.

“Yes.” She said.

“Yes, what?” He wanted her to spell it all out for herself. She'd been brutalized, and loved it.

“I came.” Her voice was still small. Ashamed. They could work with that.

“You came because you’ve never been fucked like this before, right?” He grinned when she shut her eyes and drew in a ragged breath.

“Yes.” She was learning fast.

“You want to come again?” It wasn't enough for her to acknowledge that she'd enjoyed herself. He needed her to ask for it.

She started to mouth ‘no’, but it was just an inarticulate grumbling when he shoved three fingers in to the knuckles.  It took her a moment to compose herself enough to say “Yes.”

“Good girl.”  He said, running his free hand through her hair.  “You want my cock, again, right?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Stamper said, letting his amusement drip into those two words.

“I want your cock.”

“I can’t hear you.” He said, making her repeat herself over, and over until she was practically screaming.

“I want your cock!  Please!  Just get it over with.  I want it!” She’d go hoarse if she kept it up. It was almost surprising she wasn't already, the workout they'd given her.  He smiled and stood.  She said please, who was he to let her go unfulfilled?

He made her lick his fingers clean before he gave her what she wanted. She’d been well-used, and she’d need a while to recover from tonight before they could put her on the streets or sell her; they had to finish her obedience training first, too.  But for now, she was his. She even rocked her hips as best she could in time with his thrusts.  He lasted longer the second time around, taking a slower pace.  She was already near the edge when he began, and howled over it well before he did.  After that, though she kept bucking, weakly, she kept her eyes screwed shut, only opening them when she felt him tighten his grip on her hips and his hot cum shoot inside her.  Her gaze hardened into rage, but for a brief moment when she first opened them she looked so weak, so pliant. They'd just have to keep at her until she had that look all the time.

When he was done, he got to his feet and went over the bar.  Amid the empty beer bottles, he found a plastic water bottle and a little cardboard pill box labelled LEVONORGESTREL.  He popped a tablet out of the blister pack and took it and the water over to the couch.  He offered her the pill, making it clear she could take it or he’d shove it down her throat, and she knew by now he got what he wanted.  She took it and a few sips of water when he unscrewed the cap and held the bottle up to her lips.

Swallowing, she looked straight ahead.  They were silent for a long time.  “What are you going to do to me now?”

“Depends.  We’ll have to see whose interested in you. Might put you on the streets, might be a buyer.”  He said with a grin.  She looked up at him horrified.  He leaned in close, running a hand through her hair. “You were fun; I might want to keep you around.  You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He didn’t punish her for not answering and just staring at the floor this time.  He straightened up his clothes, washed his hands, and left the V.I.P. room.  Exiting the door at the end of the hall, he looked around.  The crowd had mostly cleared out, and Copper was standing at attention next to the door.  Clasping him on the shoulder, he said “She’s all yours.  Just get her to the kennel when you’re done.” 

* * *

The ride was bumpy and loud, and she probably was accumulating bruises in her ride in the trunk of the car.  She was already so sore it didn’t really matter.  Bobby pins, press-on nails, and jewelry littered the trunk, and it took her far longer to think about using one of them to pick the locks on her cuffs than it should.  They were leather; meant for restraining a lover rather than a prisoner, so they didn’t bite into the wrists as bad, but getting out of them was tricky.

After that it was all a matter of waiting.  The big guy, Copper, had muttered that he’d clean her out before fucking her when he dragged her out an emergency entrance and dumped her in the car.  Apparently he had more standards than Jason Stamper.  

She tried to find a comfortable position inside the trunk as the road got bumpier.  She didn’t hear honks or squealing tires, or any other indicators of traffic, and the fact they hadn’t stopped in a while meant they were on the highway, not driving through intersections.  It felt like eternity until they slowed to a stop on what she assumed was gravel.

She waited until she heard fumbling towards the rear, and then the trunk door lifted.  Copper leaned forward reaching, right until she swung her leg and he caught the toe of her boot to the side of her head.  He stood straight, fast, and actually hit his head against the door of the trunk.  She kicked him in the stomach, doubling him over.

She scrambled out of the trunk and onto his back.  Her arms felt like rubber, but something made them latch on properly.  Textbook chokehold.  He was still surprised, and losing airflow didn’t help him think right; his weakening struggles didn’t do much to pry her off.  She held onto him until he went limp.  Then she went to the trunk and got the cuffs out.  Once she was satisfied he was secured, she searched him.  ID, .40 Glock in a shoulder holster, switchblade in a pocket, and a cell phone.   The lock screen just asked her to swipe, no PIN, no security code, nothing.  First bit of luck she had since entering the club.

She took a deep breath and dialed, and waited.  She started to say her name when he was interrupted.

“O’Reilly where the Hell have you been?!  You were supposed to…” An angry man with a southern accent demanded before she cut him off.

“We were right, Stamper is running a trafficking operation.” Agent Catherine O’Reilly said, blurting out a few details that were relevant evidence but that wasn’t the kind of evidence she wanted to present to the Special Agent in Charge.  She tried not thinking about what had happened, tried to focus on the case.  But this was part of the case now, wasn’t it?  They suspected that the girls disappearing, last seen at Stamper’s clubs, were getting trafficked.  Well, she had just proven it.  This probably happened to all of the girls.  She tried to block out all the irrelevant details.  Faces of the perps mattered.  Her own feelings didn’t.  The twinge that ran through her when she thought of Stamper definitely didn’t.

There was silence on the other end of the line for way too long.  The only sounds were people in the office this late, the team supposed to be keeping tabs on her, milling about in the distance.  When he spoke again, his voice was devoid of that irritation; he’d realized just how South the operation had gone. 

“The situation’s gone completely out of control... I'm sorry.”  She’d never heard him apologize before in his life.  It was a relief when he got back to business.  “Where are you?”

She looked around; she was well out of the city limits, standing in front of a dilapidated farmhouse.  The sedan she rode in on was the only vehicle around.  Didn’t necessarily mean the only person here was her and Copper.  She tried to keep her voice level. “Um, can you trace this phone?  They took mine.”

“HRT will be there ASAP.” The SAIC assured her.  Cell phones were information goldmines; a handy little device containing a GPS map and locator, miniature computer, and records of communications.  And the Hostage Rescue team had been chomping at the bit; probably had been hoping to kick the doors to Club Ishtar.  The SAIC added “Find someplace safe to wait for them; if you can get to a main road, do that.  We’ll need to get you checked out.”

“Understood.  I’m not leaving the crime scene abandoned, sir.” She winced as she said ‘I’m not leaving’.  “Just tell them to hurry.”

The Op had been botched.  SAIC wanted Stamper’s head on his mantle, or, barring that, rotting in a federal prison.  An undercover infiltration of his organization was dicey; the man did careful background checks on his employees.  But staking out an up-and-coming agent as bait?  The fictional ‘Erin Leary’, with a fake degree and fake Facebook with Catherine’s real spring break indiscretions stood up to a cursory glance, and they thought it was all she needed.  The idea was they could sneak her in to observe; unarmed and without a wire because of the security she had to go through, then she could report back her findings.

It shouldn’t have gotten this far, and Catherine was over her head.  She’d started intent on observing, then extricating if things got too thick, and in the end only realized she was in their trap when it closed.  She should have realized he was leading her to slaughter when he suggested a private tour, but she found herself following. Now she was naked save for her choker, boots, and socks, in a chilly autumn night, staring up at the apparently empty farmhouse and barn, trying desperately to forget begging for Stamper’s cock.

That was Erin Leary, victim.  It wasn’t Catherine O’Reilly, FBI agent.  One wasn’t real, she was a fiction meant to give Stamper enough rope to hang himself with.  She had succeeded at that; if nothing else Agent O’Reilly could testify as to what happened to Erin Leary.  And keep telling herself that it was Erin Leary who gave in, enjoyed herself, came for her rapists, and begged for cock. Even if a chill ran up Agent O'Reilly's back thinking of him penetrating her, growling in her ear, taking away every semblance of control, and how something in her enjoyed that. That was all Erin.

She could wait for HRT to arrive; a squad of tactical experts in Kevlar with M4s would be more use here than a banged up naked woman who wasn’t walking straight.  But she didn’t want to be hauled off for a medical checkup and debrief without knowing if this clusterfuck had been worth it.  They suspected the girls were hauled out of Club Ishtar—their guess would’ve been some docks owned by a shipping company owned by a subsidiary of a shell owned on paper by a charitable trust controlled by one Jason Stamper.  Farm wasn’t even on their radar.

There might be some of the victims here.  And there might be some more of Stamper’s men, too. This was not a smart decision.  But it was one she had to make.

After double checking Copper for any spare magazines, she requisitioned his pistol and headed up the stairs to the farmhouse.

**Author's Note:**

> To the requestor; I was vacillating on whether or not to write it as "She was undercover but found out and everybody involved knew she was when it occurred" and "She went undercover too well and got in over her head, but the gangsters were still fooled", and settled on the later. Same with the Agent's gender; you asked for male and female targets with the other groupings, but "undercover cop" could go either way. I hope both those choices were fine; let me know if they are not.
> 
> Aside from that, thanks for the prompt; the groupings you requested were perfectly twisted.


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